


Minneapolis

by togetherboth



Category: Martin and Lewis (RPF)
Genre: Antisemitism, Backstage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantasizing, Friends to Lovers, Hugs, Insomnia, Intimacy, M/M, Memory, Mentions of weight loss, Mr Martin makes everything okay, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religion, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Pills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:28:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26475685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togetherboth/pseuds/togetherboth
Summary: Backstage at the Radio City Theater, Minneapolis, Dean and Jerry are climbing the walls.
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Comments: 18
Kudos: 35





	1. Backstage

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by [this interview](https://anarchistemma.tumblr.com/post/622093483565547520/they-cuddled-up-close-to-each-other-a-little), found by the wonderful anarchistemma.

Dean’s hungry, kind of, but he’s not sure he can eat this hamburger. He dumps it back into its greasy paper and pushes the whole thing away. Why is the food backstage always hamburgers? Always, no matter what time of the day or night you’re trying to eat. Right now it's two in the morning: makes no difference. He’s gonna die of malnusumption. He can’t say he even likes hamburgers a whole lot. Chicken soup, that’s what he really wants right now. With matzo balls, yeah. And one for Jer too, feed him up. They both need healing, Dean reckons. He gets to jonesing for that type of good food even more than Jer does, but then Jer doesn’t seem to really notice food at all unless it’s a prop or a punchline. 

No hot chicken soup here, though. Just goddamn burgers again. Must be a hundred burger joints in every goddamn town. Quick to eat is something, he guesses. Not that his partner ever sits still long enough to finish one. He’ll eat half and then get distracted. Something new and important, and more than anything very _urgent_ , will hijack his attention before he’s through. Then Dean will sit alone, chewing, feeling every bit as abandoned as the half-eaten meal cooling in the empty place opposite him.

Usually what’s happened is Jerry’s decided he needs to try and work something he or Dean just said into a new bit, or else he’s scribbling on a score, or ordering more photos, or else he’s trying to fix the space heater or open the stuck window or get a clearer picture on the TV. Nothing for Jer can ever just be good _enough_. It’s a noble quality to have, sure, but not when you’re in the middle of dinner for fuck’s sake. 

When Jer starts hollering down the corridor toward Dick’s closed door that the final number should be in a different key, that’s when Dean usually steps in and calls a halt. Better him than Dick. Ol’ Ricardo has a sweet, patient nature but even he has his breaking point. Plus he’s about twice the size of Jer, and he’s packing a baton.

Inevitably by the time Jerry returns to his seat his food will be cold, so he’ll throw it all in the trash and spritz open yet another Coke. Dean does wish that his partner, God help him, could be content to sit quietly now and then. Once in a while. Even if it was just on a full moon, or Shabbat, or _something_ goddamnit. Would be nice if he could relax now and then, that’s all. It’s a good thing Dean loves the kid so much, else he probably would’ve fucking throttled him by now.

Dean looks at the remains of his own burger, congealing in its screwed-up paper. He pulls a face.

“Say, Jer. Can a fella get scurvy from an all-hamburger diet, do you think?”

Jerry looks up from the suitcase he’s spent the last five minutes rooting through. By Sunday morning it had become obvious that they were never getting back to their hotel, so they just had all their stuff brought over to the theatre and crammed it into their dressing rooms. Tighter than two coats of paint, is how Dean would describe their quarters now. Jerry’s especially, given the amount of stuff he likes to cart around with him, even though his is the slightly bigger room. “For people,” he said, and Dean couldn’t really argue with that. No people in his room, hell no.

“Not if he makes sure to eat the pickle.” Jer answers absently.

“Oh well, we’re fine then. I’m relieved.”

Jerry has started flinging clothes out of the case, growing increasingly frantic in his search. Dean ignores him and picks up his pack of cigarettes. He’s momentarily distracted from the disappointment of finding it empty by a piece of fabric hitting him _thwack_ across the face. He removes it and shakes it out a little. Holds it up. It’s an undershirt, and not even a clean one. God _damn_.

“What in hell are you looking for over there, Jer?”

“I want… I want the other robe,” he says, sounding only half there. “The robe with the stripes, I wanna wear it. S’warmer. This one’s no good.” He plucks at the red silk of his sleeve. He’s barefoot, but other than that he’s still wearing all of his clothes, with the robe over the top. This is not his usual behaviour.

“Well you’re not going to find it in there, buddy.” Dean says, feeling a little softer towards him. Jer seems genuinely distressed. “That’s the one I was wearing yesterday, remember? It’s in my room.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah.” Jerry’s shoulders slump, and he rubs one eye with a tight fist. Dean takes pity on him. 

“Hold on.” Dropping the undershirt onto the table like a used napkin he strolls out of the room, giving Jerry’s back a reassuring pat on his way past. Jer sways. Next door, he grabs a fresh pack of Luckies from his dressing table and takes the robe from its hook behind the door. About to leave, he hesitates for a second, returns to the dressing table and slips the little silver box he finds there into his pocket. Just in case.

Back in Jer’s dressing room, he finds the boy himself fiercely pacing the floor. He’s shivering, Coke in hand, practically pinging off the walls. The red robe's been cast aside and he’s wrapped one hand around the back of his own neck. He stops when he sees Dean.

“M’really cold, Paul,” he says, looking puzzled. “Can’t get warm tonight. That’s strange, huh?”

It is strange. True, it’s freezing outside. Been snowing on and off all night. But the one good thing to be said about their dressing rooms is that they’re warm, as long as the windows stay shut. Dean’s warm as toast. He stands still and takes a good look at his partner. The change in him, now he’s really looking, is so stark it’s as if he hasn’t seen him in a week. Jer’s so very present all the goddamn time that Dean hadn’t realised he’d stopped seeing what was right in front of him. The hazel eyes avoiding his own are glassy, the skin around them dark and tender. That familiar face is all cheekbones and jaw: it reminds Dean of teenage Jer, back before he’d grown into himself. He seems even more spindly than usual, his little tan forearms poking like sapling limbs from his shirtsleeves. His belt must be cinched up so tight, Dean can’t even see it between the voluminous shirt and the bunched-up fabric of his pants. 

He realises that his boy has been gnawing himself away to nothing right before his eyes. How could he have not noticed? They’re supposed to take care of each other: you’re for me and I’m for you. I’ll love you till I die. This is no good. This whole situation is no damn good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well now, I realise that I am Quite The Worst when it comes to leaving a trail of WIPs wherever I go, so I'm going to attempt to break that habit by getting through this one as quickly as I can. You might want to keep an eye on the rating, as it is likely to change.
> 
> If you feel the urge to comment, please know it'll be very welcome <3 Otherwise, please pray to your chosen deity for this humble author, she needs all the help she can get.


	2. 'Where There's Coke There's Hospitality'

“Here, Jer,” Dean says, holding out the striped robe with its empty inside toward Jerry. “Put this on, c’mon. Get warm.”

Jerry obediently puts his drink down and comes over, threads his arms into the sleeves, and doesn’t even seem to notice as his shirt gets all rumpled. Dean drops the robe onto his shoulders and uses smoothing it out as an excuse to touch his shivering partner a little. He gently turns Jer around and straightens his sleeves out too, left then right, carefully tugging the shirtsleeves down inside the thick robe. Jer stands very still and lets himself be fussed at, eyes following Dean’s hands. Satisfied, Dean fits his hands to Jer’s upper arms and rubs them. _Keep touching him_ , he thinks. _Feel his limits, make him still._

“Better?”

By way of an answer, Jer’s eyes fall closed and his head tips forward until his face meets Dean’s shoulder. _Of course it does,_ Dean smiles softly to himself and puts his arms around his tired boy.

They fall quiet, and the whole room seems to settle. 

He can feel Jer’s belly brush his own as they breathe. 

He can feel their hearts beat. 

Over Jer's shoulder there’s a fluttering at the dark window: still snowing, hmm. 

Moments pass. Then Jer seems to start coming back to himself. 

“What’s with the hugging?” He murmurs, and Dean feels two fists twist in the fabric of his shirt.

“Warming you up, Mr Looseleaf,” Dean replies, as airily as he can. The half-drunk bottle of Coke sitting on the table catches his eye. “Drinking all that freezing cold stuff’s not going to help, is it? You’ve gone and refrigerated yourself, boy.”

Jerry nuzzles his face into Dean’s neck, and the idiot voice emerges.

“But I gotta drink the Coke, Dean! ‘Where There’s Coke There’s Hospitality’, see? I seen the ad. It was in all the newspapers, so it must be true. Gotta help the hospitals, Deanie.”

“You don’t feel too hospitable, Jer,” he says, squeezing him just enough so that he makes a sweet little squeak of complaint. “Too bony. You’re losing weight again.” He rubs Jer’s side, fingers juddering over ribs even through three layers of cloth.

“And it’s a pity,” says Jer sadly. “‘Cause I don’t got much to lose.”

“No you don’t, boy. Wait, ‘don’t got much’? This is English?”

“Aw, don’t make fun of me.”

Well now, that’s not normal. 

“Sorry,” says Dean, and holds him tighter. A quiet hitching sound comes from low in Jer’s throat and he bites down hard on Dean’s shoulder. Now, that _is_ normal behaviour. Dean got used to being a chew toy for this puppy a very long time ago. It really is the damnedest thing: the more tired and stressed Jer gets, the more he tries to understand things by putting them in his mouth. Like a little kid, wanting to eat the world. What the hell though, Dean can’t say he really minds. And Freud can stick that in his cigar and smoke it.

“Hey Jer, you’re hurting. Ease up a little. Good boy.”

“I’m a good boy.” Jer says, muffled.

That makes Dean chuckle. “You are.” He raises one hand to the back of Jer’s head. Jer finally releases his death grip on Dean’s shirt and wraps his arms tentatively around his waist.

“Mmm,” he sighs, “you’re warm.”

Such a mood this boy is in tonight! Dean shakes his head. It’s a funny thing, really. Jer always acts like he’s starved for affection, which Dean just can’t understand. If there’s one thing his partner’s not, it’s lacking for physical company. So far this gig he’s worked his way through two usherettes, one chorus girl (a real pretty one too), one chorus boy (nearly as pretty as the girl), the box office clerk and a trumpet player. Dean looks over at Jer’s little bed and thinks it’s probably seen more action in the last five days than the last five months. The trumpet player wasn’t Dick’s trumpet player, thank God. He was some last-minute replacement drafted in. At least Jer knows better than to screw around with anyone permanent. He snuggles against Dean’s shoulder.

“Paul.”

“Mm?”

“I like you a lot.”

“I know you do, kid. I like you a lot too.”

“Sometimes I’m horrible to you. I’m sorry.” Jer’s mouth is so close to Dean’s throat, he can feel the movement of the words like a kiss.

“I’m horrible sometimes too, Jer. It’s okay.” He swallows.

It occurs to Dean to wonder: is he like this with them? This sweet? Can’t be, they’d never let him go.

“When did you last sleep?”

“Last night I slept.” Jer’s voice is dulled, mouth full of cotton shirting. Dean suspects that’s deliberate. Mute the voice to mute the subject.

“Well now… I left you at three, we were up again at seven, and judging by the noises I heard in between there was not much sleeping going on in here, boy.”

“Hmmm,” it’s a half laugh, contented. “I was in bed, bubbe.”

“I bet you were, but ‘in bed’ and ‘sleeping’ ain’t the same thing. Seriously Jer, you’ve been running through ‘em like water this week. I’m surprised you’re still standing up.”

“Heh heh heh.” Such a dirty laugh!

“Don’t say it, don’t!”

Jer says it: “How do you know I’m standing up?” He punctuates his words with a quick press of his hips into Dean’s. 

“Jer!” Dean says, laughing even as he grabs Jerry’s waist to still him, twisting his own hips away to avoid getting humped. They’re half out of the embrace now, still holding onto each other but no longer pressed together. Dean stops laughing. He holds his partner at arms’ length and looks him steadily in the eye.

“Jer,” he says, “listen to me, please. We are working as hard as we can. Okay? We need to rest.”

“But…”

“Trust me. Aren’t you tired?”

“You seen this face? I got eye bags under my eye bags. Of course I’m tired. But this is what we’ve got to do, Paul. Throw everything we’ve got at it, if we’re gonna be big.”

“We are big.”

“But we’ve got to push and we’ve got to make the most of it, you know this, we’ve…”

“We’re gonna push ourselves right over the edge if we don’t watch out.” Dean says. Poor Jer looks so tired, he just can’t bring himself to argue with him like he wants to. Doesn’t want to. Should. He drags a slow hand over his face. “You’ll sleep tonight at least, Jer? Please?”

“No, I got too much to do! There’s the lighting for your first number which is _still_ all wrong, you look like a head floating in space. Then there’s the ventriloquist bit needs changing but if we change the vent bit then the finale’s fucked so I gotta talk to Dick, and then there's new boaters to get from somewhere because we’ve thrown too many into the crowd and now we only got only three left in the box. And then when that’s all done I’ve got to go find someone, ‘cause you know I can’t sleep by myself Paul. I think Susie was on shift tonight. She was nice. Maybe I can just go find her…” He’s getting faster and faster.

“Jer, Jer, Jer.” Dean strokes one hand over his soft hair and Jerry pushes into it like a cat. “Baby.” That one always makes him melt a little bit. “The sparkies have all gone home. Dick’s with the boys in the bar. No one’s going to sell you straw boaters at two a.m. Relax. I’ll stay with you.”

“You’ll sleep with me?”

“No,” he has to smile a little at the untethered enthusiasm, “that’s not what I said now, is it? I’ll stay with you _until_ you’re asleep, how’s that?”

“You might as well sleep Paul, ‘cause that’s gonna take forever.”

Dean reaches into his pocket, draws out the little silver box and rattles it in front of Jer’s face.

“Not necessarily.”


	3. Half a dose

Dean takes Jerry’s hand and leads him over to the drab little bed in the corner. Good lord, just look at it. Over-starched sheets and ugly green blankets, all pulled flat by tight hospital corners. He thinks about the hotel suite they had to leave behind and tries not to sigh out loud. It’s crazy: everywhere else, this theatre is breathtakingly beautiful. It's so cold and stark outside, neon sharp and bright, lighting up a towering deco frontage that seems to go on forever. Then you get inside and, oh boy! All warmth, with endless marble columns the colour of firelight and glittering chandeliers as far as the eye can see. Dean doesn’t know much about architecture, but he knows beautiful when he sees it.

The first time they walked inside, the glamour of the foyer alone had stopped them in their tracks. It was like looking at a fabulous wedding cake, but from the inside. Dean had turned to Jer with a whistle, about to ask if they should take off their shoes, but the look on the kid's face had cut him dead. Jer was gazing open-mouthed up the sweeping staircase, right up to the ceiling that billowed above their heads, alive with flowers and cherubim and studded with twinkling constellations of crystal. He had that quivery look he gets when he’s about to cry.

Dean forgets sometimes that showbusiness is his partner’s lifeforce. It’s his family tree, his faith. It’s not just what he’s made for, it’s what he’s made _of_. And if some of the joints they’d played in the past were like tin chapels or town churches, this was a cathedral. Dean understood that he was just here for a gig; Jer was here to worship.

Yeah, the theatre’s beautiful alright. Right up until you get backstage, then the glamour turns off like a faucet. All stud walls and signage, smells of sweat and old coffee, exactly like every other goddamn joint in the country. It’s almost comforting, in a disgusting kind of way, but it doesn’t help the situation when Dean’s struggling to remember what city he’s in.

There’s a lamp sitting on the chipped nightstand next to Jer’s bed; Dean flicks the switch and it blinks reluctantly into life. He folds back the scratchy covers, sits and draws Jer down next to him. Jer immediately shuffles closer, nestling into his side. Nothing if not consistent, this boy.

Dean considers the little silver box in his hand. Seconal has been a good friend to him over the years. Too many years, maybe: one pill doesn’t even touch the sides anymore. One and a half envelops him in a comfortable sort of fog, two and it’s goodnight Vienna. Two and a half is a mistake, always. He can remember a time when one was enough to put him under but… well, there we are. Times change. Jerry, however, has the constitution of a dandelion so any kind of pharmaceutical tends to knock him sideways. Half a dose and it’ll be lights out.

“Okay, Jer.” The kid rests his head on Dean’s shoulder and peers down at Dean’s hands as he flips open the lid of the little silver box. “These’ll help.”

Jerry, magpie that he is, immediately goes to pick up one of the bright red pills but quick as a flash Dean snatches the box out of his reach.

“Woah there Silver, just wait a second. No way am I giving you a whole one of these.”

“Why not! I can have a whole one, Paul.”

“No.”

“Paul!”

Dean turns and gives him a pointed look, one eyebrow raised. “You’ll listen to Doctor Crocetti and you’ll have half.” 

Jerry folds his arms and pouts hard. Typical Jer: doesn’t even know what the damn things _are_ and he wants more. Dean ignores him and takes a single pill from the box, clicking the lid shut and tucking it safely away. Jerry’s pickpocketing skills are surprisingly good, but Dean figures he’ll be unconscious soon so there’s not too much to worry about there. He digs his two thumbnails into the pill and carefully snaps it in half.

“Anyhow, the other half’s mine,” he adds casually.

Jer’s eyes light right up. Dean knew he’d like that idea. Hell, sometimes he surprises even himself with his expert knowledge of how to push Jer’s buttons. He knows half a pill won’t do a damn thing for him, but if it makes Jer happy then who cares?

“Really?”

“Really. Now open up.”

Jer opens his mouth wide, so eager. Dean places the half-pill on his pink tongue and gently closes his jaw.

“Now swallow.” Jerry gulps extravagantly and is rewarded with a nose tweak. ”Good boy.”

His eyes fall closed and he smiles, laying his head back down on Dean’s shoulder. Dean knocks back his own half and glances down at his partner. Dear god, he’s looking better already. How can that be?

“How long till it works, Paul?”

“Long enough to get comfy. C’mon, sleepyhead.” He rearranges the pillows a little and starts to settle back onto the bed, but stops when he realises Jer isn’t moving with him. He glances up and finds Jer looking at him like Thanksgiving, Hanukkah and Christmas have all come at once. Dean smiles at him indulgently,

“What are you waiting for Mr Loomis?”

Jer blinks and comes back to life, happily burrowing into his little nook squashed between Dean and the wall. He pulls up the covers, looking like contentment itself until his face abruptly changes.

“Wait! Oh, wait, I want to take off my pants.” He refuses to move away from Dean and stand up like a sensible person, instead struggling and wriggling in the bed, trying to undo all the snaps and latches on his ridiculously over-tailored pants. Dean waits, patiently getting jostled until finally Jer is free. He tosses the offending garment to the floor and beams at Dean. “Okay bubbe, I’m done.” 

“You’re gonna ruin the crease,” Dean says, nodding toward the pants as he leans back against the pillows with one arm crooked behind his head. Jer leans over him and looks down at the crumpled heap on the floor. 

“I think it’s already ruined, Paulie.” He crosses his eyes about an inch from Dean’s nose and Dean laughs. Then Jer lifts up Dean’s free arm and ducks underneath, settling against his chest and getting a good grip around his waist. One skinny leg barges its way in between Dean’s and Dean shifts around a little to accommodate it. The things he does for this boy. Ah, who’s he kidding? He’d do anything. He keeps his arm raised up where Jer left it, letting him squirm around and get comfortable.

“You done?”

“Mm-hm,” says Jer, grabbing Dean’s hand and pulling his arm down and around his own shoulders. “All done.”

For a few minutes he lies there peacefully, quieter and stiller than Dean’s seen him in a long time. He starts wondering if maybe the pill’s taken effect already, and the thought of Jer being that vulnerable makes all his protective instincts well up inside. He idly strokes Jer’s back with the very tips of his fingers, lets his hand wander up and scritch into his hair. Jer makes a little purring kind of noise and softly licks his neck. 

“Paul?” A slender hand emerges from the blankets and starts playing with one of the buttons on Dean’s shirt.

Not asleep then.

“Jer?”

“If we’ve had a half each of the same pill...,” he does sound sleepy, or at least a little fuzzy round the edges.

“Yeah?”

“…will we have a half each of the same dream?”

“What, I dream the beginning and you dream the end?”

“Nah, more like we share the dream. Together both.”

“Well, I don’t know if it works like that Jer. Maybe.”

“I think we will,” he pulls the button up taut and lets go. “If anyone could, we could, right Paul?”

“I guess that's true.”

“So where do you want to go in our dream? Where should I meet you?”

Dean’s face lights up. “Pebble Beach?”

“Aww, no Paul!” Jer says, and lazily thumps his chest. “I’m not wasting our dream on a golf course. Carmel, okay. But not Pebble Beach, please.”

“But you like golf!”

“Sure I like it, but for a dream? I’d rather go someplace you’d at least talk to me.” He yawns and rubs his face against Dean’s collarbone, hair tickling underneath his jawline. “We could go anywhere, Paul. We could fly to Mars. We got the whole of space and time at our disposal here. C’mon, have a little imagination. Where do you want to be.”

Dean sighs and thinks. Have a little imagination, he says. Where does he most want to be? He looks down at Jer cuddled up so comfortably in his arms and fights the urge to say “Right here, except in a nicer bed.” The kid would only get excited. Okay.

Where (else) does he want to be?


	4. Bones

Maybe in their dream they could go back in time, Dean thinks. They could revisit something they did together, something good, and love it properly while it’s still happening. They could go back to that day shooting their first picture, that day when they were so nervous George had them do their act on the nightclub set just to relax. It went over so well! All those extras keeling over laughing, the crew suddenly wanting to be their best buddies. He still can’t believe it took the fucking _Donkey Song_ for Wallis to realise what he’d had the good goddamn dumb luck to sign. Standing there in the shadows behind George, grinning as if he hadn’t nearly ripped that contract right up the second he saw their screen tests. Dean can still see the dollar signs shining in that old _stronzo’s_ eyes.

Or how about Ciro’s? Back on their opening night, when it seemed like the whole of Hollywood fell in love with them. He felt like king of the world that night and he knows Jer did too. Twin princes. He can still picture him the way he looked afterwards: baggy shirt hanging open, dripping sweat and seltzer, grinning. Jer had glowed at Dean like he was all lit up from the inside, even though he was so exhausted he was swaying where he stood. He remembers catching Jer around his waist backstage, picking him up and spinning him round. He remembers the champagne bubbles on his tongue, and how the muscles in their stomachs ached from laughing.

Maybe they could go even further back in their dream. Right back into the middle of that swirl of meeting Jer. People ask him about meeting Jer all the time, as though meeting Jerry was an _event_. Ha! Meeting Jer wasn’t an event, it was a drawn-out chemical reaction. Asking him him about it is like asking, ‘So, Mr Martin, when did you first start breathing?’. 

They didn’t meet. It was a matter of recognising a vague shape in the crowd that must’ve been there before for him to recognise it, but damned if he could remember where he’d seen it, or when. And slowly, over time, a face comes into focus, and a body, and then from somewhere there’s a voice. And before he’s even realised anything’s happening it’s 4am and he’s getting drooled on because there’s a teenage boy asleep with his over-coiffed head resting on his shoulder. ‘Meeting Jer’, ha! Holy Mary.

These are all things he’s had once already though. He doesn’t really want to go backwards, if he’s honest. And Jer’s right: he could have anything he wants. Something begins to resolve itself in his imagination; an indistinct, nostalgic sensation that slowly develops into a specific feeling from early in his boyhood. Wait, he knows what that is. It’s the raw, thrilling feeling of going out on a horse alone for the very first time, coaxing him into gallop and just _flying_. 

Bones it was, yeah. He hasn’t thought about ol’ Bones for a good long while. He was the sturdy black colt that worked for Luca the coalman. Not a dray, but a big, strong horse anyhow. He must’ve looked ridiculous on his back, this tiny boy. Luca would let young Dino take the him out in exchange for a quick shave _gratis_ from his Pop. That first time, he’d ridden all along the river and up through Beatty Park, right into the woods even. Just him and Bones with the whole world to themselves and, Christ, it was the freest and happiest he’d ever felt in the whole of his young life. _We could go anywhere_. Even then he knew that Steubenville wasn’t the world. It’s that feeling that he wants now. That feeling, but he wants to transplant it somewhere he’s never been before, and he wants Jer to feel it too.

“I think I got it, Jer. Jer, you asleep?”

“Nah,” Jer nuzzles into his neck and resumes playing with that same shirt button. “I’m just resting my eyes. Tell me.”

“You warm enough now?”

“Hmm, nearly. You should probably hold me a little tighter.”

Dean laughs, but squeezes him anyway. Rubs his back.

“Oh, that’s better, bubbe. Much better, I am warm as can be, truly.” He yawns. “Now, tell me.”

“Okay,” he gazes at the ceiling, trying to conjure up a picture. “I want to meet you in the Sierra Nevada. Yosemite, I think. But any place with a lake and a couple trees, I’ll be a happy fella.”

“Sierra Nevada?” Jer lifts his head a little and grins up at him. “Well sure, cowboy. Dog _gone_.” 

“The sun’s out, beautiful clear light, not smog like New fuckin’ York. But there’s a cool breeze.” He can almost see it, projected there on the cracked ceiling like a movie. “You’re riding a beautiful palomino, by the way. You’re a very lucky guy.”

Jer laughs. “Sure I am. And what type of horse are you on, pray tell?”

Dean looks at him, scandalised. “Well, Trigger of course!”

“Oh, of course!”

“We’ll find the best spot and pitch camp. You will miraculously know _how_ to pitch camp, city boy.” Jer pokes him in the chest. “Ow! Hee. Then we’ll go for a swim in the lake, all clear crystal blue, ‘cause we’ll be dirty from the journey, see.”

“Of course.”

“Then we’ll sit and have chicken soup from Lindy’s for dinner. With matzo balls.”

“Lindy’s got a joint in Yosemite now?”

“Shh, s’my dream.”

“Sorry.”

“Okay. Then we’ll be so tired, we’ll go to sleep under the stars.”

“We won’t be cold?”

Dean looks down and takes in their current position. 

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem, Jer.”

“Mmm. Share your bedroll, cowboy?” Jer gives a sleepy little wriggle against him. “I like your dream, Paul.”

“Well, thank you.”

“You’ll talk to me in this dream, right? You won’t go all strong and silent?”

“I’ll talk to you in bad Italian, how’s that.”

“Then I will answer you in bad Hebrew, and we will understand each other _beautifully_.” Is he starting to slur a little bit? Maybe.

“I’m not sure that’s gonna work, Jerm.”

“Sure it will! Uh, Bad is the language, see. Italian and Hebrew… they’re just dialects. We’ll be fine.”

“You’re crazy in the coconut, kid.”

Jer seems to be finding his head heavy to lift, but he does it anyway and blinks up at Dean.

“Would you have me any other way?” 

“I kinda like the living we’re making so no, I guess not.”

Jer gives him a wonky smile and tries to tweak his nose but kind of misses, and just the sight of him makes Dean giggle without meaning to. When he stops being a hurricane for five seconds, he’s just about the cutest thing Dean ever saw. Dean gently guides his head back down to his shoulder and settles him there.

“How about you, Jer? Don’t you have a dream you want to tell me about?”

“Maybe… but… nah. I just want to be in your dream.”

“Would’t you rather something fancier, maybe? Somewhere with lots of people?”

“People’s for work… you’ll do. Just you… s’fine.”

Dean peers down at him, “Jer, you sleeping?”

Jer just gives him a soft squeeze and whispers, “Paul.”


	5. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes' peace

Dean tells himself he’ll stay for ten minutes, just to make sure Jer’s really under. Then he’ll retreat to his own room. Maybe fifteen. He lies back, absently stroking Jer’s soft shorn hair with one hand while the other rests between his own head and the pillow. Damn, he wishes his cigarettes were closer. He’s way too tangled up now to get them. Oh, but wait a minute.… Trying to keep as still as he can, he stretches down and fumbles one-handed along the floor for Jer’s discarded pants. After a few seconds of awkward rummaging he comes up triumphant with a half-pack of Camels and a gold lighter. They’ll do, in a pinch.

He thumbs a cigarette free and extracts it from the pack with his mouth, flicks the lighter to flame and then relaxes back against the pillow, exhaling a deep plume of smoke that tastes a bit like Jer. Well now, that’s a whole lot better. On the nightstand there's a small glass ashtray with the theater's name engraved on it. Feeling a bit mischievous, he picks it up and carefully balances it on Jer’s back so it’s easier to reach. Kid’s out for the count, he’ll never know he made a handy surface. Dean taps his ash and looks contentedly down at his sleeping friend.

Jer’s face is mostly buried against his chest but he can still see hints of the left side, black lashes and the gentle curves of his hairline. He starts to trace Jer's temple with his fingertip but his hand feels brutish so he makes himself stop. The delicate skin beneath Jer's eyes is still so dark it almost looks bruised but he must be warmer now at least, because a slight flush of colour has risen high along his cheekbone. Dean’s glad he’s there, safe with him instead of spinning off somewhere into the night. He silently asks his old buddy Saint Jude to pray for them, to keep them both safe and better protected than he has managed by himself. Infinite love, in a world without end.

All that talk of dreams and wishes has got him in an unusually nostalgic mood. He generally considers himself a man who prefers not to look back, but there's something about tonight. Maybe it's the cold outside and the frugal surroundings, coupled with the warm glow of feeling so close to his partner. An old, old memory flickers into life. He remembers when he was a boy and the schoolteacher would try to teach them something of poetry. Most of it was learning by heart, and his little heart was already pretty full, what with trying to contain his Ma and his Pop, and Bill, as well as the woods and the cold swimming pool and the glittering lights on Market Street and all the blustery wilderness of the sky and so forth. Never was a whole lot of room left for words. But he remembers one time there she was teaching them about some English poet, he forgets the name, and she used this phrase, ‘the holiness of the heart’s affection’. That struck young Dino as something beautiful. He liked the fierceness of it. If the affection is heartfelt, like he feels for Jer, how can it be anything but holy? God _is_ love, after all.

He knows that not everyone sees it like that, of course. He shifts slightly, getting comfortable, and feels Jer burrow against him in response. He recalls this one time, early days, they were sharing a bill with another comic and he sure as hell didn’t see it like that. Short fella he was, older even than Dean. Something tight and bristly about him. Detroit, was it? Ah, who knows. Somewhere cold. This fella, he claimed to be the religious type; wouldn’t know it from his act, but there you have it. Protestant, probably. Well, they provoked his sense of righteousness alright.

They weren’t even doing much, barely a thing by their standards. It was after the midnight show on their first night, and Dean was sitting at the bar on a high stool. He was just ordering himself a well-earned drink and minding his own goddamn business, when Jerry came out from backstage and stood beside him. Natural as anything that they should put an arm around each other. That’s all they did. Just a little affection, hurting no one.

“Oh,” says this guy, looking daggers at Dean’s hand where it was resting on Jer’s hip, “oh, I thought it was Martin and Lewis I was working with, not Burns and Allen.”

They didn’t laugh. They’d heard that one enough times before, even back then. Quick as a flash, Jer smiled and stuck his hand out for the guy to shake, friendly-like.

“Pleased to know you, sir. I’m Jerry Lewis, but you can call me Gracie.”

A joke, see! Just a joke. But this guy stared at them like the wrath of the Father was going to shoot out of his pupils and smite them right here in this grubby little nightclub. “You want to be careful, boy,” he said icily, ignoring Jer’s hand. “I’ve seen you two. Cavorting like a couple of fairies. You want to be ashamed of yourselves, flaunting your sin in front of God and everybody.”

Jer looked like he’d been slapped. This guy was serious! Dean felt like thunder, but he turned his mounting rage inside out, tamped it down and stored it.

“Maybe that kind of thing’s alright with your type,” the guy said, cool as anything. “But good, right-thinking Christians don’t want to see it.” 

“With my _type_?” There were furious, embarrassed tears welling in Jer’s eyes and his voice cracked when he said, “it was just a joke, mister.”

Dean considered standing up from his bar stool and looming over this guy, but decided against it. Better to keep his powder absolutely bone dry.

“Look buddy,” he said instead. He tried to sound completely unruffled, although he was sure Jer would know different from the way Dean's fingers were digging into his poor hip. “Here’s an idea: why don’t you fuck off and leave us alone. How about that?”

Later on Jer told their friends starry-eyed how Dean stayed cool as a cucumber, not rising to this guy once, taking the high ground and not letting anything he said get to them. How he didn’t lift so much as a finger. Every now and then this guy would spit another insult at them but not once, Jer would say proudly, did Dean stoop to his level.

Jer thinks that’s where the story ends. He’s wrong, though. No one, _no one_ , makes Dean’s boy cry. 

The thing about that little Detroit club is there’s a real dark alley running right down the side. After their very last show of the run, after the afterparty and the after-afterparty, Dean followed that guy outside into the cold grey morning. Sent him flying into that alley and showed him how a fairy can have a man swallowing broken teeth just as sure as anyone else. Didn’t even need to break a fuckin’ sweat for that chickenshit son of a bitch.

It’s the hypocrisy of it, is what Dean can’t stand. Like that guy’s so squeaky clean? Trying to use the scriptures against them, trying to delimit God’s love, what gives him the right? Strikes him as blasphemous. Far more blasphemous that any flirting or fooling around he might do with a perfectly willing party, and then have to haul his ass in front of a priest to be absolved of. Makes no sense, when you really take a second to think about it.

He must be tensing up at the memory because Jer stirs slightly in his sleep, opening his mouth a fraction and nuzzling at Dean’s chest. It's almost as if he can hear himself being thought about so hard. Dean sighs and tries to relax again. He’s really not a man easily given to such reflection. Must be that Red Devil pill they split between them, loosening the walls.

They do make him angry though, people like that. Sitting in judgement. He’s enough years under his belt to come to terms with the fact that he’s something of a fence-sitter regarding the ol’ gender preference and always has been. And that's okay, he's made peace with it. Not that he makes a habit of broadcasting it or anything. He’s just made that way, he guesses. If someone wants him, well, who’s he to go around making judgements about trifling things like the type of equipment they were born with? We’re all God’s creatures after all. He goes where he’s wanted, and makes sure everybody concerned has the best time possible. That’s as much as anyone can do.

Where Jer sits among all this is anybody’s guess. Dean sure as hell can’t pin him down. He’s seen him in the small hours, slipping into the shadows with a girl or a boy, or sometimes someone on that lovely spectrum of both. He figures Jer’s philosophy must be somewhat similar to his own. 

Where they really differ though is that Jer seems to be able to turn himself from boy to girl and back with little more than a flick of his eyelashes, and Dean can’t quite fathom how on earth he does that. It makes the wolf in him prick up its ears though, that’s for sure. Not the thought of Jer as a girl, no, no. It’s not anything as shallow as that. It’s more the thought that there are still layers upon layers of Jer that he doesn’t yet understand, but that he’s sure he could explore better than anyone else. He knows there’s nothing special about him, but he thinks something special happens when you put him and Jer together. That’s what people are tuning into, though they don’t know it. There’s just a quality to the way Jer’s made that he can’t leave alone. It’s compelling, makes him feel hungry.

They’ve become best friends over the years. Sure, sometimes they want to murder each other, but that’s just the flip side of the love coming out. He’s closer to Jer than to anyone else in the world, and Jer sure lets him know that he feels the same way about him. He’s told Jer things no other living soul knows. 

It strikes Dean as kind of funny really, that they can do all that, all the talking and the not talking, for all those countless hours but as soon as that kind of intimacy threatens to get physical they have to pull back. He doesn’t mean the kind of casual affection that fella in Detroit took such offensive exception to, no. They never pull back from that. He means the kind of intimacy that requires the exposure of skin. He means the kind of intimacy that, when Jer’s wandering around a warm hotel room in his undershirt, being funny and sweet and loving, makes Dean want to crowd him up against a wall and _bite him_. Apparently for that type of intimacy you need a stranger.

He’s thought about it, of course. Touching Jer like that. More than he would ever admit to. He’s thought about how good it would be. Better than good. They’re practically psychic, how could it be anything else? He’s thought about how he’d approach the situation, sure. Untying this and unbuttoning that. Jer’s always so trussed up in all those layers of fancy tailoring, more catches and latches than a prison, that boy. Dean’s imagined how much fun they could have releasing him from them. He's absolutely confident that he could have Jer halfway to wrecked just from teasing him out of his clothes. He always enjoys that part anyway, but with Jer? The whirlwind having to hold still, and wait patiently while Dean kissed and coaxed and touched all he wanted? He’d be in pieces! Man, it would be heaven being together like that. Good _lord_.

He’s starting to feel guilty now, thinking that type of thing with Jer innocently sleeping right there against him. He’s only young still, and Dean knows Jer looks to him for his comfort and protection. It’s at times like this that he’s most painfully aware that there’s nearly a decade in between them. If they were they same age, well, he probably would’ve tried something by now. Just gently. But as it is, anything of that kind has to come from Jer. Has to. He thinks of the times they’ve laid together like this before, usually with Jer still warm and dewy from the tub, sleepy and affectionate, winding himself around Dean. Damn hard to resist. But by God he does resist, and he’ll keep doing it.

He’s getting a little suffocated. Between Jer’s weight and the blankets and the closed window it’s definitely getting kind of stuffy in here. Maybe the way his thoughts have been tending isn’t helping either. Feeling like he's waking from a reverie he looks down and sees that over the course of his rumination he’s chain-smoked his way through more than enough of the borrowed cigarettes. He removes the now-full ashtray from its perch on Jer’s shoulderblade and puts it back on the nightstand, stubbing the last one out as he goes.

It’s not easy to untwine Jer’s arm where it clings around his middle but Dean manages, just. The only way he can think to slip out from under his slumbering partner’s weight is to forget about dignity and just slide sideways off the bed and onto the floor, trying not to take the blankets with him.

The room is still warm, but once he’s free his whole left side feels bereft where they’re no longer pressed together. He sits on the floor, watching as Jer shifts into the cosy space left behind; a small frown clouding his face for a moment as he seems to register that his largest pillow has gone, but then he settling again, content. Dean’s so glad to see him getting some rest at last. He pulls the rumpled blankets up to cover the gentle rise and fall of Jer’s back, then quietly turns and leaves for his own room. There’s no homely clutter there, and no sleeping friend, but at least there’s some breathing space and the chance of a little peace of his own.


End file.
